I look up at the sky, wondering if I’ll catch a glimpse of kindness there, but I don’t. All I see are indifferent summer clouds drifting over the Pacific. And they have nothing to say to me. Clouds are always taciturn. I probably shouldn’t be looking up at them. What I should be looking at is inside of me. Like staring down into a deep well. Can I see kindness there? No, all I see is my own nature. My own individual, stubborn, uncooperative often self-centered nature that still doubts itself—that, when troubles occur, tries to find something funny, or something nearly funny, about the situation. I’ve carried this character around like an old suitcase, down a long, dusty path. I’m not carrying it because I like it. The contents are too heavy, and it looks crummy, fraying in spots. I’ve carried it with me because there was nothing else I was supposed to carry. Still, I guess I have grown attached to it. As you might expect.
He said he’d hold on to you, and not ever let you go
Yet you knew he would,
(Because he was a dreamer,
And dreamer often lie,)
But you nodded anyway.
And then you were riding, free and fast,
The wind was catching and your legs were spinning.
Faster and faster, you were riding and dreams,
You flew with ease and fell on lies.
Sometimes, you say
I am nothing: dust in the wind
I could disappear, waif thin, wait –
Hark! you lied, there are times
fire burning, warm and bright:
one consumed, dispersed until
I am everywhere, everything
“Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.”
— Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anaïs Nin
Heartbreak is a daily occurance,
but not today.
You can only have faith in what you don’t know. ~P. Arden
Victory meets preparation.
I think you’ll find that every woman in her heart of hearts longs for three things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive.
~ JOHN ELDREDGE